


Judge and Jury

by aeon_entwined



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, Gen, M/M, warnings for: vague mentions of violence and self-image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:19:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/pseuds/aeon_entwined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes is not a handsome man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Judge and Jury

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first real venture into the Mystrade corner of fandom and it's primarily a headcanon-influenced character study of the elder Holmes. I've got a few other things in mind that I may decide to work with and potentially add to this, but we'll see.
> 
> I'd also like to note that my headcanon for these two has been **heavily** influenced by [sheffiesharpe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sheffiesharpe)'s absolutely brilliant series, [At Least There's The Football](http://archiveofourown.org/series/9540).  (Girl, you have _no_ idea how much I love that thing. If I could give you a bouquet of roses every day for writing it, I would.)
> 
> Enjoy!

Mycroft Holmes is not a handsome man.

He knows this. Oh, he knows this better than anyone. His nose is too large for the proportions of his face, his lips are too thin, his eyes are often too shrewd, his hair is thinning, his weight has fluctuated enough throughout his life that despite his impressive height, there's still an impression of softness around his middle.

He keeps himself wrapped comfortably in expensive three-piece suits and ensures that his tie is done up perfectly every morning. No point in loosening anything and accidentally revealing the skin of his too-pale chest, dusted with a light smattering of ginger hair even near his collarbone.

He has none of Sherlock's impossibly aristocratic looks, no truly aesthetically pleasing attributes in any way, really.

Then again, his job does not revolve around his looks. Which is all according to plan.

But, all of this is thrown to the wolves when he begins spending time actually speaking face-to-face with the DI responsible for saving his younger brother's life twice when he was unable to reach him in time.

It happens faster than he could have ever predicted, but less than two months after the Baskerville incident, Sherlock turns to him and says, "In case you were curious, you're dating my DI. I'd appreciate it very much if you didn't destroy him."

For the first time in a good many years, Mycroft is left speechless.

He then finds himself eating a relatively enjoyable dinner in the presence of one Gregory Lestrade two nights later.

+++++++++

Mycroft Holmes is intimately acquainted with every inch of his physical body.

He hates it.

He has exactly eleven noticeable scars. There's the one on his abdomen from his surgery, two on his chest and three on his upper back from incidental stab wounds, two on his left thigh from shrapnel, one on his inner right wrist from a cutting incident in his mid-teens, one on the outer edge of his left hand from a chemistry accident with Sherlock at twenty-two, and the last.

The last is the least noticeable.

He spent a good deal of time in the company of the best doctors in the whole of Britain upon his extraction and return from that particular endeavor.  
The last is almost negligible, unless you're properly looking for it. It's faint, very faint, but if he tilts his head at just the right angle in the right light, it's still visible.

A discreet ring of overly smooth, obviously scarred skin around his throat; a parting gift from his captors in Greece wherein he was very nearly garroted with an impressively thick wire.

He still has nightmares. Though they're extremely rare. He wakes up feeling as though someone has reached down his throat and torn out his lungs.

It happens once when Gregory is asleep next to him. After managing to calm down enough to form coherent sentences, Mycroft spends the next four hours telling the story.

Gregory never says a word throughout the speech.

When they turn the lights off again and tried to find sleep, the last thing Mycroft feels is the careful press of lips against the tired skin at his throat.

+++++++++

He doesn't understand what Gregory sees in him.

His brain never allows him to sleep at regular intervals, he's often distant and removed even when they're together, he can never predict his schedule, he has a terrifying amount of self-image complications, he cannot truly relate to "normal" despite how very hard he does try (especially now).

Mycroft's conclusions are thus: the DI has the patience of a saint and the mental endurance of an Olympian.

But that still doesn't explain why he feels inexplicably _giddy_ whenever he's observing one of the many weekly crime scenes and Gregory happens to look at him, giving him that smile, the smile that they share in the privacy of the bedroom or the sitting room. It's an odd sensation, really. A fluttering sort of thing in the pit of his stomach.

Mycroft's hand often tenses over the handle of his umbrella, but he immediately smiles back, unaccountably grateful for his years of practice in acting _human_. Even so ... it doesn't feel so much like acting now.

+++++++++

On the bad nights, Mycroft spends most of his time folded elegantly in the desk chair near the bed where Gregory is fast asleep. He himself is wide awake, far too agitated to even think of sleeping. So he works. Sometimes all the way through the night and is still working when Gregory wakes the next morning.

On the good nights, Mycroft slips beneath the sheets of his bed, then sighs contentedly as two strong arms wind their way around his midriff, holding him in a way that makes his throat strangely tight.

It takes nearly four months for Mycroft to grow comfortable enough in his own skin to allow Gregory to undress him. After that, it takes another several weeks for him to grow accustomed to Gregory touching his myriad collection of scars, marveling that the man doesn't look at them in a way that resembles fear or disgust.

Now, he almost craves it.

Remarkable, really, how easily these sentimental connections that you forge with other people can end up changing age-old habits. 

Mycroft still tells himself that caring is not an advantage, but he has always known it's just a lie crafted to make it easier to get through the day.

He just required the proof to debunk the theory.

Gregory Lestrade was the final conclusive evidence that allowed him to finally put it to rest.


End file.
